like a telling-off.
It’s the jenny-rater’s fault. That’s what was letting them down, that’s what really disappointed Mr Latoc. She wondered if that meant he was thinking of leaving them as soon as his leg was all fixed up, go and find better people to live with; people who could live quite happily without silly ‘lectric. She’d hate for him to go, especially after she’d worked so hard to make him better again. He seemed to be the only grown-up who really listened to her. When he talked to her, he actually looked at her. Other grown-ups always seemed to have their attention elsewhere, on things-that-needed-doing, they gave her an uh-huh, or a really?-that’snice.
But Mr Latoc really listened; listened with his eyes as well as his ears.
He was looking at her now. He reached out and gently held Hannah’s shoulder. ‘You are crying. I am sorry. I think I have upset you?’
Hannah shook her head. ‘Are you going to leave us?’
He shrugged. ‘I . . . I see things I would want to change if—’
They heard the faint sound of a bell ringing out across the platforms.
‘You have school now?’
Hannah nodded absent-mindedly, her face clouded and deep in thought.
‘You should go. Before you are late and get me in trouble.’
‘You won’t go, will you? I can ask Uncle Walter not to put the jenny-rater on tonight, if you don’t go.’
His smile was warm as he gently squeezed her shoulder. ‘I do not think I am leaving today, Hannah.’
Jenny admired Martha’s handiwork in the mirror.
‘Oh, blimey! I can’t believe what a difference it makes!’
Martha beamed cheerfully, scissors in one hand, comb in the other. ‘I told you, Jenny. Didn’t I say? It’s the length that ages you. I been tellin’ you that since I don’t know.’
She studied her image in the mirror. Her hair, long and coarse and frizzy, had been tamed by Martha’s hand into something she could be proud of. Instead of carelessly pulled back into a ponytail - out of sight, out of mind - it now framed and flattered her face.
‘A little conditioner, and a trim . . . you look flippin’ gorgeous now, sister!’
Martha’s enthusiasm was infectious. Jenny found herself borrowing some of that smile for herself.
‘It does make me look . . . yes, younger.’
She realised she looked a lot more like the old Jenny, the long-forgotten Jenny who once wore pencil skirts to work and looked good for thirty-nine with a little warpaint.
‘Oooh, he’ll love it, girl. He’ll be all over you like a bloody rash.’
Her cheeks coloured ever so slightly. ‘What?’
‘Oh, come on, Jenny. You know who I mean.’
‘No . . . I—’
‘Our newcomer?’ Martha grinned in the mirror. ‘Monsieur Tasty?’
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘You think I got you to cut my hair for him?’ Martha’s raucous laugh filled the cabin. ‘Oh-my-days! Of course you did, love! It’s obvious you like him. Lord knows, we all know you’re goin’ to let him stay.’
Jenny was appalled that they actually thought she’d put her own desires before the good of the community; that she’d let her loins do the thinking.
Desires? So, you’re admitting it, then?
She shook the thought out of her head. ‘Look, Martha, no.’
Martha cocked a sceptical eyebrow at Jenny.
‘Seriously, no,’ said Jenny. ‘If he stays, it’s because he can add something; knowledge, a skill set, a useful pair of hands, whatever. And that’s the only reason.’
‘Be nice though, to have a man ‘round who ain’t either some old goat or a young boy,’ laughed Martha, her broad frame shaking. She sighed. ‘A real man at last. Perhaps I’ll get a bit of the real t’ing between my legs instead of me trusty ol’ faithful.’
‘Oh, Martha!’
‘See, the batteries have been flat for years. I have to shake the thing like a salt cellar.’ Martha cackled again.
Jenny found her own shoulders shaking. ‘God, too much detail!’ she snorted. ‘Were you always this candid with your customers?’
‘That’s why they came to my salon, girl - for a little dirty talk an’ a cup of tea.’
Jenny shared some of that infectious smile again. A raucous giggle with Martha every now and then was just about as good as any medicine Dr Gupta could hand out. She wondered whether she’d have gone mad years ago on these rigs if it weren’t for Martha.
‘Honestly, girl, if you’re not going to wiggle for him,’ Martha added, ‘then I gonna be the first one in the queue!’
Their shared mischievous witch’s cackle was brought up short by the sound of feet clanking up the